


500 Words You Should Know: #200: Gargantuan

by RakishAngle (afterdinnerminx)



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 02:18:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4986277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterdinnerminx/pseuds/RakishAngle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hugh's best intentions bring about an undesirable result.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fire_Sign](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/gifts).



gar·gan·tu·an - ɡärˈɡan(t)SH(əw)ən/  
adjective  
definition: tremendous in size, volume, or degree : gigantic, colossal  
synonyms: huge, enormous, vast, gigantic, very big, giant, massive, colossal, mammoth, immense, mighty, monumental, mountainous, titanic, towering, tremendous, elephantine, king-size(d), economy-size(d), prodigious

\--*--

When his wife relocated to live with her sister, Detective Inspector Jack Robinson started the habit of writing detailed letters to include unexpressed thoughts, feelings, and frustrations. He proceeded with all motions as if the letter would be sent. The letter would be fashioned properly on stationary with all salutations in place and sealed in an addressed envelope. Then, it would sit undisturbed until it was destroyed. Once pen was put to paper, the writing was never to be seen again, and his own eyes were included in this. This indulgence became an ablution for the worst of times. It allowed him to endure.

Last night was such an evening. 

For weeks, he had been building his nerve to approach Miss Fisher with an offer of romance. He was confident he had been gauging correctly the increased contact between them. He considered the way she would straighten his tie or let her hand linger in his when he helped her out of his automobile. Just last week, they were secreted behind a door and listening to Miss Fisher’s companion get clarification on the faulty alibi of the main suspect, when she unnecessarily pulled him closer to whisper in his ear. 

Then, he learned that she had taken a new lover.

There was nothing for it. He returned to the office before seven in the evening with a new bottle of whiskey and he began to write. He wrote forthcomingly of his frustration in having been too late, again. He wrote unbecomingly of her character and of the misleading behaviors she had repeatedly performed in what he felt was her slow seduction of him. She dedicated herself to this task only until she would be so easily distracted by a more available and, to his opinion, less deserving suitor. He wrote ineloquently of his perceived need for her both on the job and off. He had pandered to his own desire in describing what he should do as her lover if he ever got the chance, hoping beyond all hope, that it might intrigue her. He plied this letter with quotes about her beauty, her duplicity, her seduction and, above all, being a woman who has everything but a semblance of good taste in men. It was beyond two in the morning when the detective inspector sealed a fatly padded envelope, addressed to Miss P. Fisher and placed in a ritual fashion on the corner of his desk, never to be sent.

Therefore, Jack Robinson experienced no small panic when this particular envelope appeared to be missing the next day. He thought of the letter all evening. He would snatch it from plain sight at once and burn it this evening in his own fireplace. The sounds accompanying his movements in this search had grown with his desperation in putting his hands, once again, on the abomination. He would not rest until this was done. The shuffling about of papers and folders quickly turned to the slamming of desk drawers and clanging of upturned rubbish bins. 

The noise attracted the attention of Constable Hugh Collins, who appeared at his office door beaming. “Good morning, sir. I trust you had a restful evening off.”

“Uh, yes Collins.”

“It just sounded like you might be looking for something, sir. I wondered if I might be able to help?” Collins seemed more obsequious that usual. As the constable wasn’t trying to recover from any particular embarrassment of late, the inspector wondered whether he was angling for a promotion.

“There was a letter on my desk.”

The detective didn’t think it was possible for his constable’s face to brighten more than it already was. To his horror, it did. “Ah, yes sir. I hand-delivered it this morning.”

“You WHAT?” Jack felt the floor drop from underneath him. 

Collins couldn’t fathom his wrongdoing. “I was going to visit Dottie during my break so that I could invite her out to the pictures. I noticed that you addressed a letter to Miss Fisher. It was such a full envelope, I could only assume that it was something important relating to a case. I brought it along with me to ...er...help... you, sir.”

Jack sunk in a chair. He slowly registered what the actions performed by his junior officer, done with the best of intentions, meant to his own future in both the near and far term. His feelings on this must have been quite clear as he watched his constable blanch with him in tandem. “Sir, did I do something wrong?”

Jack heard a distinctive click of heels emerge from behind his junior officer. “Oh, Collins. You’ve no idea…”

Within moments, Miss P. Fisher herself wafted through his office doorway, bemused and pink. She carried a substantive fan of papers. The fog of writing lifted for a moment to reveal a particularly excruciating description of his feelings for her. “Pardon us, Hugh. The Inspector and I have one or two things to discuss urgently.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack is so busted.

"Good morning, Jack. How are you this morning?"

"I..."

"I _do_ hope you are quite well. I am, too. Thank you for asking. I received a lovely surprise this morning. It was so lovely, in fact, that I wanted to share it with you right away." 

"That wasn't..."

"Did you know about it? I am holding in my hands a veritable font of ...oh, let's call it _literature_ , shall we?"

"Phryne...:

"It is chock full of analysis of my person and my personal life. I had no idea that anyone would have so much to say."

"I didn't mean to presume..."

"Oh, Jack. But, you did presume. You presumed many times. Let's review these together. I do _so_ want to know where I stand with you."

"Please, will you let me..."

"Ah, here we are. Page 3. _'The world can see she carries a waspish sting in both her tongue and her tail. How many ways do I dream to remove it?'_ A reference to Taming of the Shrew, I believe. How flattering. The very idea that I am waspish, shrewish or, perhaps both, and that you envisage not only of my taming but, even more surprisingly, that you should be the one to do it. Enlightening, Jack Robinson. Very enlightening. How very well you know me. How deeply I desire this fate each and every morning. Thank you so much for writing it down."

The detective inspectors face is firmly covered by his hands. "Oh god, no..."

"Ah, but there's more! You know, Jack. Since you are such a fan of the bard, one would have thought that you may have heeded his words. You know, the one that starts with "Brevity is the soul of wit." Apparently, the follow-on phrase struck you more meaningfully.... _'tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes.'_ Am I right? Did you think I might consider this a flowery oration? That you may be more successful in wooing me this way as compared to any other? Oh, please stop groaning, will you? I do _adore_ a good drama, after all. Now let's see. Where in this tome do you reference _that_? Here it is. Page 7. _'Just because you are a woman, you think and so you must speak. But, let it be known that you rarely stop there.'_ Well, I can think of a _few_ things that you must mean by that. Now, I do need to stop myself. Far be it from me to speak now without thinking. Jack, what _do_ you mean by this?"

"Please, stop. It wasn't meant for you to read it."

"No? Do mine eyes deceive me? Is this not addressed to Miss P. Fisher? Does the opening salutation not read Miss Fisher? Actually, it doesn't. This has been crossed out in lieu of Phryne. I really must insist that, as there are very few Phryne's in the world, and that since it was hand-delivered to my house, it is perfectly reasonable that I took the time to read it."

"That isn't what I mean. It was never meant to be delivered."

"You have certainly placed a great deal of thought into a letter that was never supposed to have been delivered. _FIFTEEN_ pages, Jack. I should be so grateful that you have written on a single side. So, tell me. How did I get the opportunity to read your letter if it was not meant for my eyes."

"I was trying to get my thoughts out of my head so I can think more clearly."

"Do I understand you correctly? This is what you think of me?"

"No, Phryne, please. I just needed to empty my mind. Really."

"Then, if I following your reasoning, let me ask another question. Do you edit yourself so severely that what you say to me in front of my face is nothing at all like what I have read this morning? Who do you claim to be, Jack Robinson?"

"It isn't what you read in that letter. Please, I am quite embarrassed that you have seen it."

"I can't promise to return the entirety of the favor you have bestowed upon me but I do have a quote that I think you'll appreciate, though it is from this century: _A man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides_."

"I am not hiding anything from you!"

"Really, Jack? How marvelously simple do you think I am? All of those evenings with just you and I. To think now about how much have I shared with you! I think of you...I _thought_ of you as a man of honor. A man who was so dignified and honorable that I could trust him with my deepest thoughts and feelings. And here, in front of me, I find that you refer to me as _'an index of prologue to the history of lust and foul thoughts."_ As lechery, personified? How DARE you. It is cold consolation that you and I both know that Desdemona was slandered. You have no right to judge."

"No, I have no right."

"I shan't delve into any imagined situations between us. Though, I daresay that these are the least of your transgressions." She sits red-eyed and cross-armed and waits for him to say something.

Jack sits at his desk, stunned, covering his mouth with both hands. 

"The most offensive part of all of this is that you dared, you _dared_ , speak of love amongst these backward, cowardly, sexist, rude, and, ill-conceived sentiments. This is no kind of love that I want any part of. And, certainly, this is not how I deserve to hear about it."

"Phryne, I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. I do not mean anything that you have read in that letter."

"I find that surprising, Jack. It all sounded so...vehement when I read it the first time. Quite frankly, not much changed when I read it again. I have little doubt that these feelings were all quite coherent when you placed them on the page."

"I owe you a very sincere apology."

"You do. I trusted you, Jack. I thought you respected me. At the very least, I thought you liked me."

"Phryne, I do."

"You don't. You can't. Those words about me could not have come out of your head and onto that paper if you held any esteem for me at all."

"Phryne, everything in that letter makes me sick to my stomach. The only reason it exists at all is to be destroyed. I hold you in the highest regard. I do. Honestly."

"You meant none of it?"

"I wish I could acknowledge that completely but...in honesty, I don't remember what I wrote. May I have it back?"

"I don't think so, Jack."

"May I at least read it so that I know what it is that you must think of me?" 

She sits across from him, observing, as he reads the letter from the first to the last word. To his credit, flashes of horror cross his face where she imagines they should. When he finishes, he lined up the pages, face down, as if the words could magically be unseen in this orientation.

"I'm genuinely appalled. Furthermore, I am ashamed to say that I can no longer admit that I meant none of it. I have no right to ask your forgiveness." Jack notices the blistered paint on the wall behind her. That is exactly how he feels. 

"You might at least _try_ , don't you think?"

"It pains me to realize you have been disabused of my trust. To be trusted, to have your trust...to be trustworthy...is more important to me than anything else. If my carelessness in writing has caused the grief I think it has, I don't know what to say. I am ashamed of what I have written. Of how you must think of me. I have come to care for you so deeply. Would you please consider forgiving me for what I have written?"

"It was offensive."

"I agree. It was most offensive. I am sorry."

"I am still sore with you."

"Understood."

Phryne stands up to take leave of him. She glances back at him while holding the door ajar. "We aren't done talking about this."

"No, I imagine we aren't." 

She closes the door behind her. He listens to the ever quieter clicks of her shoes to ensure she is far away before dropping his head onto his folded arms, on the desk, on those pages that happen to lay in front of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides.”
> 
>  
> 
> ― André Malraux


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phryne extends an odd sort of olive branch. The conclusion (yes, really...this time, it is!) to the story of Jack's gargantuan eff-up.

The letter in front of him reads: Mr. J. Robinson. The words _seven p.m._ are inked over the sealed seam of the envelope. The penmanship is a warbled version of her usual hand. He traces his fingers over his name and agonizes whether he should actually read what has been enclosed.

It has been several days since her visit to the station. This is the first he has heard from her. He suspects that this is her response to the letter he sent, which he hoped was suitably contrite, asking again for her forgiveness and describing why and how the initial letter was written in the first place.

The letter in his hands shouldn't be read here. Alas, his mind won't be focused on anything else. In closing his office door, the Inspector makes eye contact with Collins and Hawley and asks not to be disturbed. He sits in what he considers her chair and tears open the envelope along the top ridge. His fingers are trembling.

_"Jack, you are a sanctimonious, priggish, uptight, cloistered, righteous fool who is clearly not able to appreciate the assistance of Melbourne's best detective team without it having been shoved up your ass."_

Ah, she has sent over some light reading.

He thumbed through the six, not fifteen, pages. He notes several contributions capitalized, underlined, and struck through. There is an entire page dedicated to pictograms, all of them rude and some of them suggestive. He closes his eyes and smiles at her generosity. He _really_ should not be reading this at work.

The letter continues in detail about her frustration with men, in general, and him, in particular, in their ridiculous desires in ownership, commitment and what that entails for the women in question. First, in financial stability. Second, in valuing one's voice. Third, in cutting off what life has to offer by living so fervently in the head that the body can starve to death.

As if to exaggerate her case, the rant moves into the vein of his perception of her slow seduction. She categorizes every casual touch as well has he might have, and its accompanying lack of reciprocation. She admits she likes that taste of, but in all honesty, has no patience for molasses. She would insult his lovers, as he has hers, but for the distinctive lack of them. His adulthood is questioned - in attitude but, fortunately, not in body.

The picture she paints of him is colorful and altogether unflattering. She helpfully includes her thoughts on his marriage and what commitment to him would likely be like. She uses the word "repressed" far too many times for his liking. This is what the hand-drawings represent. It is her interpretation of what he describes as racy to that which _actually_ is.

Not to be topped, she includes a mortifying and explicit description of her feelings for him, never to be admitted to and never to be said aloud. She provides with an update on her current list of lovers, most of whom have been invited to leave, along with notice that she rejects the idea that she would have to give up more to admit her next. She closes with an ultimatum for standing either closer or further with ability to making a decision alluded to with references both to his manhood (this time, it is physical) and to his honor.

It is the best olive branch he has ever received.

Later that evening, she receives him in her parlor. She hands him a whiskey. There is no question that he will indulge this evening.

"It seems we have one or two things to discuss, Miss Fisher."

"Really? I'm not sure what you mean, Inspector." He hands her the letter delivered to him earlier that day. "That little thing. I'm surprised you found it interesting."

"Did you enjoy writing it?"

"It was certainly, as you say, cathartic." Phryne crosses her legs and leans back in her chair, head tilted and eyeing him. "Did you enjoy reading it?"

"It is," he clears his throat "evocative."

"That was not the question I asked. I asked if you enjoyed it. Did you?" He practically saw the gantlet thrown in front of him. If he said "no", she would be exactly that which she accused him of - a hypocrite and a liar. If he says "yes", he is a cad. She looks vulnerable for an instant before her shields snap together in the form of a glossy, sarcastic grin.

"I admit to enjoying some of the things you shared. Perhaps, a more honest expression is to say that I am touched that you would have so willfully shared that secret dialogue with me."

"It seems only fair."

"You didn't need to, Phryne. Those letters aren't meant to be shared."

"No, they aren't."

"Did you mean everything you wrote?"

"No."

"Can we burn these now?"

She smiles at him in acknowledgment and she eases herself off the chair and onto the floor in front of her fireplace. He joins her there. "Where's yours?" Jack pulled out his letter from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He handed his letter to her and she gave hers to him. They took turns extending arms close to the blaze, watching each page alight before dropping it and watching each turn ash. When the pages were gone, her glance went to his tie.

"Did you wear that for me?"

"I did."

She pulled at the knot of the slim black fabric, this time undoing it completely and sliding it from around his neck. "I shall never again be thwarted by a silly tie." This, too, went into the fire. "Can we agree to have fewer secrets between us, Jack?"

His nod is slight. "There is one part of your letter that I wanted to ask you about." They are sitting side by side, arms parallel, legs pointing away from the other, and pinky fingers within brushing distance. 

"Which part, Jack? I hope you aren't referring to any particular thing I may have written that shall never be said aloud."

"No, I would never. It must have been entirely made up by me."

"Yes. I think that is far more likely. The question is, what do you plan on doing with this overactive imagination of yours?"

He leans into her so that his lips are close to hers. "Would you approve if I showed you?"

"I would." As always, she meets him half-way in closing the distance between them.


End file.
